Castaway
by LilyGhost
Summary: What was supposed to have been a romantic cruise takes an unexpected turn for Helen Plum. A sorta Babe story nonetheless.


**I wrote this with the queen of all Helen-haters, Margaret, in mind. All familiar characters are Janet's. The mistakes are mine.**

 **Castaway**

 **By Helen Plum**

" _Why me?_ " I asked the clouds, since there isn't anyone else here to speak to.

After thirty-five years of marriage, I finally get Frank to agree to go on a vacation, just the two of us, and I end up overboard and stranded on this poor excuse for a desert island.

"Why did this have to happen to me?"

This time, I directed the question to the sun that has already turned my face and arms the color of a steamed lobster tail. My lips have become so dry, they've started to crack and bleed, actually staining my ivory-colored silk blouse. And I lost one of my sensible one-inch heeled pumps when I went over the railing after an over-exuberant sigh Scarlett O'Hara herself would have been proud of.

I only managed to keep two things in my possession; my patent leather pocketbook, and a bottle of whiskey I managed to sweet talk out of the nice young man who was in charge of the cruise ship bar. It wasn't my preferred brand, but I know beggars can't be choosers.

My appreciation for whiskey may have played a small part in my unplanned dive into the ocean. But in my defense, when the man you have devoted more than half of your life to tells you to grow up and deal with your own problems instead of pointing out everyone else's, you need something a little stronger than coffee to cope.

I'd hoped that a Caribbean cruise would rekindle a marriage that has slowly been dying out, but without outside distractions and our own corners of the kitchen and living room to politely ignore each other from, we've been bickering more than loving each from the moment we boarded the ship.

And now I'm stuck here alone, and I've yet to see a single plane, rescue boat, or helicopter out looking for me. Truthfully, I can't even be sure Frank knows that I'm gone. Unless I'm constantly nagging him to do something, he seldom even acknowledges my existence.

Maybe if I had been nicer to that 'Ranger' man Stephanie is now dating - against my numerous, and loudly expressed objections - he would send out that group of hooligans he works with to find me. _That ship_ has obviously sailed, I thought, laughing crazily to myself. It's possible that I'm becoming delusional on top of dehydrated and sunburned, if I'm standing here making jokes about my current situation.

"Come on, Helen," I told myself, "just treat this island like you would your own home."

And if there is an emergency in the Burg ... you call for help. So that's exactly what I'm going to do. I looked around the beach and tried to find the perfect stretch of sand to write my S.O.S. on. I took my last swig of whiskey and then I started gathering my supplies. _I can do this!_ After all, I _have_ participated in every single craft fair the church has sponsored. I know I'll need large rocks and perhaps some tree limbs to make letters large enough to be spotted from _above_ or _from_ the ocean.

I turned to head back towards the tree line and tripped ... earning me a mouthful of sand for all my trouble. I pushed up on my hands and did what I could to spit out the irritating grains. I can't drink the water until I figure out how to rid it of the salt it contains, and the bottle I'd clutched to my chest like it was a lifesaver is as empty as my head is right now. I wiped my forearm across my mouth one last time and then got right back onto my feet.

My maturity and positive thoughts were temporarily put on hold as I pulled off my remaining shoe and threw it as far as I could into the now turbulent waters of the ocean. I had a moment of uncertainty, praying that I wouldn't regret that childish move. I can't see how one white pump will benefit me, so I didn't give it another thought as I rolled up the legs of my tan slacks, which I'm disgusted to admit are still soaking wet from my life or death swim to the shore.

I'm now thankful for the swimming lessons my mother forced me take when I was thirteen, after I had a hissy fit when Douglas MacConnell tossed me into Joanna Dontier's pool during her birthday party. Mother claims that I screamed so loudly, she heard me even over the ball game my father had blaring away on the television.

Well ... I saved myself back then, and by God, I'll do it again now. I crossed myself automatically, not wanting to take the Lord's name in vain and got busy. It took a lot longer than I was expecting, and far more energy than I had left in me, but on one flat area of sand I had _S.O.S._ spelled out in stones as large as I could carry or roll into position. And on the opposite end of the island, I used a small tree limb to write 'HELP' as big as I could.

Now I need shelter and water. Maybe I shouldn't have complained about all the camping trips Frank used to take with those lodge buddies of his. I accused him of only going to get away from me, but maybe I should have stopped yelling at him and joined them instead, then I would know how to do all of this without wasting what little I do have here.

I decided a small stand of trees will suffice for a temporary home for the night. If no one arrives by tomorrow, I'll work on a more elaborate structure, but right now I will be partially protected from the sun and I know all I really need is a barrier against the elements, water, and rest.

I emptied my pocketbook onto the sand beside me, and then placed it between two tree branches where it will be able to collect rain water. The dark clouds had moved in quickly, leading me to believe that a fire will not be possible tonight ... _if_ I could manage to get one going without having any matches. I have no dry clothes, no fluids to drink, no shelter, and now ... no heat. What I did to deserve this, I haven't a clue.

I picked through all the items that I thought were essential to surviving a day in Chambersburg running errands, and noticed just how unnecessary they are for actual survival; lipstick, breath mints, stain remover pads, clear nail polish in case my stockings get a run in them before church, all useless for the situation I find myself in ... except for two. A small notebook and pen I use to keep track of prices when I'm shopping for groceries.

I paused and then picked up the wet coordinating pen and paper set. These could alleviate some of my boredom and frustration, since I have nothing to do except write my story, stick it in the whiskey bottle that had comforted me more than my own family ever has, and hope it washes up where someone can find it - and me - before it's too late.


End file.
